If You See Me, Please Just Walk On By
by InfluentialPineapple
Summary: Every once in a while, the Arc Reactor becomes too unbearable for Tony to even haul himself out of bed, and he takes a day. Because he deserves that much at least, right? Unfortunately, the team doesn't quite understand. Prompt fill for the illustrious kinkmeme. Rated for language, violence, and distressing visuals. Tony whump.
1. Chapter 1

**If You See Me, Please Just Walk On By**

**Chapter One**

_ghosting along the dubious boundaries of consciousness, wading through dark shadows thick as mud, pulling limbs from it, fighting the suction as it tries to inhale him back in_

_he hears himself cry out_

_voices all around him, many of them forceful, insistent. Angry words that he doesn't recognize spoken in a tongue familiar but indistinguishable_

_one of them soothing, soft, a pillow in the center of a bed of nails_

_he gasps. The smell of copper and rust is overwhelming. Mingling with dirt and shit _

_there's pain in his chest, pain which rises into steady pounding, searing agony of which he is unable to coherently describe _

_oh god_

_he screams. He can feel ruthless hands holding him down, the voices become louder, more panicked. His chest is exploding_

_he tries to reach up to stop whatever is happening but finds his wrists bound next to him by cruel straps. Tossing his head only makes it worse, strains the offending area _

_and opening his eyes only graces him with a brief moment of blurred horrific imagery, of gloved hands lowering a black object into a pool of bright red_

_he screams again_

"Sir!"

When he wakes, he doesn't bolt upright as usual, but his terrified shout is loud enough to make him thankful for sound-proof walls. Gasping raggedly, sheets drenched in his sweat, Tony just lays there and stares wide-eyed at the ceiling, fluid recollections of his nightmare eroding the already compromised shores of his composure.

"Jesus..." He breathes, one shaking hand coming up to wipe at stinging eyes. "That was a bad one."

And then his next breath comes with a hitch and a long groan as he realizes why such old memories had dragged themselves up with hooked claws from the pit he'd thrown them in. The arc reactor isn't willing to play ball with him today, sitting heavily in the cavernous hole, the hole carved out of him against his will. Lungs refuse to expand properly, ribs rubbed raw by his recent twisting and maneuvering in the suit, and painful internal swelling as his body attempts to reject the culpable implant. What a terrible, terrible privilege.

Tony sits up a little, propped against some pillows, and pulls his shirt down to inspect it. Yup, there it is. Bruising and swelling all around the glowing blue of the arc reactor, a sight all too familiar to him. It looks like a perfectly circular lake had been dropped smack dab in the center of a cracked and spoiled nuclear wasteland.

Funny, because the damn thing came out of a cracked and spoiled wasteland. Pretty much the worst souvenir ever.

Tony sighs, winces when the movement irritates the newly raw skin around the arc reactor, and lays back down, resigning himself to the unavoidable hours of recuperation he requires so his body can return to normal.

Or what he refers to as a mockery of normalcy. His body would never be normal again.

"Sir, Captain Rogers requests your presence in the lounge." JARVIS says, tone lowered so as to not prematurely induce the migraine he knew his creator would eventually have to suffer through.

Tony drapes an arm over squinted eyes, growling in frustration as pain shoots like electricity through the limb, originating from the hellish tomb in his sternum. He grits his teeth. "Not sure I could get up if I wanted to. Tell him I'm busy."

"I already have, sir."

Tony smiles through the pain which is now becoming worse with every inhale. Sharp, redundant, annoying. His A.I. is the absolute shit, knows Tony like the back of his own circuit board, is capable of sensing when he's in too much pain to do much else aside from laying there. "Thanks, J." He pants, staying stock still on his back to prevent movement induced agony. "I think it's gonna be one of those days."

_**A/N**__: This was written for a prompt on the kinkmeme: . ?thread=38897129#t38897129_

_Story is complete, so please review, and more will come faster, blah, blah, blah. Chapters are short throughout... sorry, I hate doing that but, meh._

_Also, I'm still working on Dark Horse, so never fear. Just needed something to dispel a nasty case of blockage, and this did it, I think. _

_Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think._


	2. Chapter 2

**If You See Me, Please Just Walk On By**

**Chapter Two**

Steve frowns at the ceiling, because really, he doesn't know what else to frown at when it comes to JARVIS. A camera? A kitchen appliance? This new era is strange to him.

"Where is he?" He asks skeptically. He's already visited the garage only to find it empty and desolate, lacking the palpable energy Tony normally exudes when he works. And typically when Pepper's away, the garage becomes Tony's temporary place of residence, sleeping, showering and taking three meals a day in there. So 'busy' isn't going to cut it for Steve.

"Mr. Stark is in his bedroom, Captain. I expect he will remain there for the duration of the day." JARVIS answers. Steve gives a grunt of surprise and shares a puzzled glance with the others.

"I wonder what's up." he says and four sets of shoulders shrug at him from various positions around the table before digging into plates filled with eggs and bacon and toast.

"He's just being lazy." Clint says through a mouthful of eggs. "Probably drank too much last night."

Natasha shoots him an incredulous glare. "Tony Stark, _lazy_?" She challenged, jabbing her fork in his direction. "Have you ever seen the man _not_ working?"

"Or eating?" Bruce chimes in, poking his own eggs around his plate idly, and looking at Clint pointedly over his glasses. "He never misses a meal, and when he's not eating breakfast, lunch or dinner, he's constantly snacking. Come to think of it, this might be the first time he hasn't come down for breakfast since I moved in here."

Steve considers this quietly. Meal times are the only moments of reprieve Tony normally allows himself from his seemingly endless work and Banner is correct, he never misses one. Even on his busiest days. Even when he is so deliriously sleep deprived that lucid conversation eludes him, he still shows up to consume impressive amounts of food and banter incoherently with them with a slight slur and jerky movements. Death himself can't keep Tony from a good meal.

Clint rolls his eyes. "Well it's not like he died or something." He says with tones of apathy. "Stark can take care of himself."

Thor finishes his orange juice in no more than two gulps and places the cup on the table. "He is merely fatigued due to our recent battle." he states, as though it's fact. Steve arches an eyebrow at him. "Even the most hardened warriors must rest their minds and bodies periodically from the burden of constant war."

Is that it? Steve looks away with a contemplative furrowed brow. He knows Tony continues to struggle with nightmares and anxiety from the incident with Loki. And certainly, back to back missions with varying degrees of intensity, mental stress and physical consequences aren't fostering proper recuperation time following such a traumatic incident. Perhaps it's all become too much for him. After all, he's a civilian amongst a group of seasoned warriors. With the exception of Bruce, of course, but the man seems zen enough to be accepted into monk-hood. Maybe Tony's writhing in distress and he's calling out for help silently.

Or maybe he has a cold. It could be anything. Steve sighs. "I don't think we should worry about it right now."

"Who's worried?" Clint places his fork on his empty plate and sits back in his chair with his arms crossed. At Steve's disapproving scowl, he shrugs. "He does weird things all the time, Cap. If I freaked out every time Tony Stark did something out of the ordinary, I'd be in a mental institution by Friday."

"I second that." Bruce says with a smile. "But in my case, New York would be in ruins by Wednesday."

Anxiety diminishing due to his friends' light humor, Steve allows himself to chuckle. "Yeah, I guess that's true. Tony Stark is an unreadable enigma."

They all exchange endeared smiles, and Steve finds himself wondering just what the hell Fury had been thinking when he'd labeled Tony unsuitable for the Avengers Initiative. Ironically enough, Tony's unpredictability is the glue which binds them all together. Keeps them united.

Mostly because it takes at least five people to wrangle him.

_**A/N:** Thanks for all the quick reviewing! Same deal; more reviews, more content, more quickly. _

_Will shift between Steve's POV and Tony's POV throughout, however, there is no pairing. That means no slash. Please never fear, if that was something you worried about._


	3. Chapter 3

**If You See Me, Please Just Walk On By**

**Chapter Three**

Positioning himself on his side proves to be a painful, nauseating task, but Tony's found that remaining on his back much longer is an impossibility. The Arc Reactor is pressing down into his chest like a boulder, constricting his lungs and leaving him gasping.

He's sweating profusely as he turns slowly to his left, the blanket twisting beneath shaking legs, kicked off long ago once the anticipated fever had gained purchase. Gingerly, he settles with a long groan, eyes squinted and watering with pain. The migraine he'd predicted is sprouting, roots traveling slowly through his skull, tendrils of despair almost sentient in their escapade into his brain.

There's a bottle of Ibuprofin in his nightstand drawer but he's not sure he can swallow anything, the pain he knows will occur as mere liquid passes beneath the reactor too daunting to even consider. The prospect of eating is like a fairytale in his mind.

"Sir, temperature has spiked to one-hundred, two degrees." JARVIS offers quietly, underlying tones of concern evident, but Tony still flinches at the sound regardless, his entire face pounding a drum beat of misery.

"Dim the lights." He whispers, and as JARVIS does so, _oh god_, it's just like that fucking cave. His own bedroom manifests into a thing of his nightmares before his eyes. He clenches them shut with a moan. _Jesus, not again_.

Icy hands of a distant Arabian night grasp him and he shivers violently, toes curling around the blanket and pulling it up slowly so he can reach it without having to actually bend down. He pulls the soft, thick comforter up to his shoulders with a moan because, dammit, he's aggravated the arc reactor anyway. Just moving is like being tortured. He would know.

Five minutes later, he's pushing it back off with an exasperated snarl, because his fever is a bipolar fucking asshole, not allowing him to find comfort in neither heat nor cold. His skin feels like he has a massive sunburn.

He's uncomfortable again, and moves to turn onto his back once more. Slowly, slowly, slowly-

"Fuck!" He shouts, eyes stinging with the frustration at his inability to get comfortable as maneuvering to his back and laying stiff just brings the same unbearable suffering as before. Tony's so tired, so goddamn beat, and all he wants to do is sleep it away but there's a man standing beside him, and, shit, _he's holding a surgical saw,_ balding, glasses, smiling kindly, sadly. The saw whirs to life, the blade spinning wickedly, lowering towards his chest and Tony cries out, panics-

"Sir, fever has spiked to one-hundred, three point five."

Tony blinks and the man is gone. _Yinsen is gone_. His chest heaves, and it only brings him more agony. It's been quite a while since he's seen Yinsen. Usually, he's not this frightened of him.

He sweats like a cold water bottle on a hot summer's day. Shivering, he pulls the blanket up. Burning, he kicks it back off. Boxers and a tank top are providing nothing to him. "JARVIS..." He grinds out, arms spread on either side of him, eyes unwilling to open. "JARVIS, is- is it infected?" He's gasping again. The arc reactor hasn't bothered him this badly since... since-

"It appears to be merely irritated at the moment, sir, but it wouldn't hurt to continue scanning your torso periodically for early signs of infection." JARVIS pauses, and Tony languishes, a single tear creeping out from behind the impenetrable barrier of his stubborn resolve. Tony is tough as nails, but there's only so much pain over so much time he could handle before carnal instinct claimed him. And Yinsen's sudden appearance has shaken him to his most vulnerable core. He knows he's been feeling this way, and steadily getting worse, for at least two hours. Or maybe three. He's not entirely sure, come to think of it. "You should seriously consider taking an NSAID as soon as you're physically capable, if only to bring down your fever."

"I got that, J." He gasps. The pain is incredible. Darkness plays at his peripheral. A dancing tribe of shadowed figures...

"_They will never find you in these mountains..."_

"Is there anything at all I can do?" JARVIS asks, ever helpful. Ever caring for Tony. Forever concerned for his wellbeing.

"_You have until tomorrow to assemble my missile_..."

_Oh god, that's not enough time. Please, I'll need more time._

"Just keep the others away." Tony murmurs just before unconsciousness envelopes him. A soothing respite from multiple sources of intolerable affliction. If only for a few moments.

_**A/N: **Thanks for the reviews! Keep 'em coming!_

_A few asked about continuing/a longer story or something along those lines. This is about 10 chapters long, so really there's a full story here. More whumpery to come._


	4. Chapter 4

Noticeably devoid of their most animated teammate, the conference room is quiet. It's _too_ quiet, almost eerily so, as Steve's eyes scan the four others in attendance, before falling to rest on Tony's empty chair. None of them say anything, making it a point to avoid his irritated gaze at all cost, as they all seem to have uncovered the mystery of life in the floor beneath the table.

He glances at his watch and frowns. In twenty seconds Tony will officially be late for a meeting he'd sworn he would attend. The one he promised Steve he'd be at to make up for all the _other_ times he'd forgotten. The man has a terrible habit of forgetting nearly everything, with the exception of how to be a complete pain in Steve's neck. Tony's mind never seems to unwittingly expunge _that_ little tidbit of information from his prejudiced hippocampus. For the past three weeks, Tony has blown off every weekly briefing Steve has held, with varied excuses such as; "Cap, I could never administer enough caffeine intravenously for something like that without dying, and I _truly_ enjoy living."

He'd actually said that, as though it were a real concern, with a face straight as uncooked spaghetti. If Steve hadn't been so exasperated, he would've laughed.

3... 2… 1… His watch beeps 1200 and he sighs, closing his eyes only for a moment to compose himself. Opening them, he finds the four other members of his team wearing nearly identical, grimacing looks of 'well, _we_ didn't expect anything different.'

Clint leans forward, places his elbows on the table, interlocks his fingers and raises a wary eyebrow at Steve. "Please don't tell me we have to wait for him… _again_." He says with only a little ire. "There seriously can't be anything that spectacularly exciting to put out."

Steve glowers at him. "It's not about the information." He says hotly, eyes narrowed. Clint rolls his own and looks away with an annoyed huff. "It's about syncing up as a team. Every time he blows us off like this, it's like he's spitting right in our faces."

"He's a busy guy, Cap." Natasha says quietly, her arms folded over her chest, expression stoic as blue orbs swivel smoothly over him. "It isn't like this is a new thing, and I really think you should calm down about it."

Shaking his head and feeling like he's completely alone in his way of thinking, Steve stands, because _forget these guys_, he has a profane genius to track down, soon to be choking on a piece of Steve's irate mind. "Where is he, JARVIS?" He nearly growls, looking to the ceiling. He hears Bruce scoff quietly.

"Mr. Stark is currently working in the garage." JARVIS replies, smooth, serene voice washing over the tense situation like a peaceful mountain stream. Steve turns on his heel, moving to head towards the door.

"Steve," Bruce says sternly, and Steve halts his advance and turns to look at him, jaw clenched. He's regarded pointedly by cautionary hazel eyes. "It's not that big of a deal. Tony shows up for every single mission, in fact he's usually the _first person_ on location, and that's the important part, right?" Sitting back, he shrugs and offers a hopeless half-smile. "This _is_ Tony we're talking about. And trust me, the day he misses a call to assemble is the day I storm his garage right alongside you. But for now, it's not that important."

Steve runs a hand through flawless, blond locks and releases another sigh. Sure, Tony never misses a mission, during which he is always an invaluable asset to the team. He's a true, proven hero and a damn good friend, but when someone promises Steve something, they'd best be prepared to deliver on that promise. He's left many unredeemed promises hanging in the stratosphere, those who'd uttered them either dead or dying, forever incapable of following through, their words trapped in inescapable purgatory. Allowing a _living_ individual to break something as sacred to him as a promise is unacceptable in Steve's mind.

Promises are a painful thing for him.

"I'm just gonna check on him." He says after a moment, his anger hidden beneath a rock of intense calm, and leaves before anyone else decides to grumble protestations at him.

He steps into the elevator across the hallway from the conference room and descends to Tony's garage, where he finds the usually crystal clear glass exterior tinted completely out. With a frown and a furrowed brow, because Tony hasn't blacked out his workshop in quite a while, Steve approaches the door and knocks lightly.

"Mr. Stark is conducting a teleconference consultation with a very important client, Captain Rogers." JARVIS informs him. "He's asked that he not be disturbed."

Steve gets the distinct impression that he's being played, but keeps himself from knocking even louder nonetheless. Tony and his unflappably loyal artificial intelligence are an efficient team, and Steve knows that JARVIS will provide cover for his creator as long as the situation isn't life threatening. Sometimes, it leaves him feeling like he's been ganged up on, despite the fact that JARVIS merely consists of very intricate lines of code.

The excuse is a good one, possibly even valid, but it's been used before and last Steve's heard, Tony doesn't really interact with new clients any more. Pepper does. Steve's no idiot, regardless of how often Tony attempts to perpetuate that assumption, and he recognizes avoidance when he sees it. "Just let him know I want to talk to him as soon as he's done, please." It's a quiet request, certainly not an accurate representation of how annoyed he is.

"Of course, Captain." JARVIS replies, and Steve walks away, cracking his knuckles impulsively as he enters the elevator.

_**A/N:**__ Ugh, sorry for the delay in updates. Civilian employees at work have been furloughed due to the nonsense in Washington right now, so us greensuiters have to pick up all that slack…_

_In other words, updates are going to become more and more scarce as my sanity wanes under the increased workload. So… tired… zzzzzzzzz_


	5. Chapter 5

_body locks up in response to the screech of a banshee, the sound of it oddly familiar, but his panicked mind can't put a name to it_

_his ears bleed. He feels the warmth of it, like some heinous caress upon startlingly unhealthy pallor. Everything sounds like he's under water, and yet he's being told to 'breathe, breathe,' like it's a possibility_

_he's lowered back gently, slowly, in a twisted display of faux compassion, of perverse tenderness_

_and that voice. The voice is familiar, but the monster that rounds the end of the couch and grins at him, flashing crooked fangs, is not. Not exactly_

_why, Obie… what big teeth you've grown_

_a hand adorned with massive claws grips his face, forces him to look and wide, terrified eyes peer warily into those of insanity and greed. This isn't the Obie he knows. This is a demon wearing his skin… has to be_

_it strokes his arc reactor with one hooked claw, and his breath hitches into nothing more than a grunt as he tries desperately to shout, to tell it to __**get the**__**fuck away from his heart**_

_but it pays no heed, and claws plunge into him regardless, and it's __**grinning**__ as though it's finally acquired a long-desired prize, too enthralled by the heavenly blue glow to notice his agonized wheezing_

_and then it extracts it, pulls it out with a sucking 'pop' and appraises it, shows it to him as he attempts to breathe through an approaching panic attack, because he's looking at his damn __**heart**__, and it's in the hands of an abomination. Or worse, the gnarled remnants of an old friend _

_tears collect in his eyes and he swallows hard around vomit_

_please…_

_his silent plea is ignored. The arc reactor is yanked from his body like a weed from soil, roots and all dangling obscenely off the underside and the gasp he releases is filled with anguish and horror and pain, so much pain. It's probably his hyperactive imagination, but he swears he can feel the shrapnel shifting within its unwelcome home, sharp and cold_

_His breathing quickens as his heart begins an irregular rhythm and his jaw tightens ominously, left arm twinges and cramps spastically. He chokes down a sob_

_he'll die here, like an old man_

_the monster turns to leave, clutching its prize, and all he can do is watch helplessly as his very heart, __**his**__**fucking heart **__is taken from him, and no, please come back, that's his heart! _

It's his thrashing and the consequential agony such movement brings which wakes Tony this time. The intensity of it renders him at an immediate, frozen standstill on his back, mouth open and eyes wide with shock at exactly _how_ much pain he's in. Each breath comes in a tiny gasp as he discovers that expanding his lungs to their full capacity is just unbearable, and he shakes violently with persistent fever and a certain disabling fear brought on by his most recent nightmare.

But he's beginning to question whether they're nightmares or not, because they seem so, so real, and he sees everything in such vividly disturbing definition, that for all he knew, they could be full blown hallucinations. "So what's it gonna be, J?" he nearly whispers. Talking is akin to being drawn and quartered, shifting the arc reactor in just the right way so as to bring tears to his eyes. "Am I gonna finally experience spontaneous combustion like I've always dreamed?"

"Your fever has stabilized at 103.8, Sir." JARVIS replies. Hearing the voice of his A.I. is almost like a painkiller for Tony and he allows a small, tentative smile to smooth out the pain-induced canyons on his face. "I'll remind you, there is excess ibuprofen lysine in the garage. I suggest you administer a dose to actually begin reducing the fever. Although it has evened out, it is still fairly high."

"Yeah…" He relents quietly, and he can almost hear JARVIS' sigh of relief. Slowly, painfully, he props himself up on his elbows with a groan, and locates his feet tangled in the sheet, twisted so tightly it's almost like a soaked rope has been wound around his ankles. The comforter is nowhere to be found. "I guess I could- ah!" He gasps, stops and clenches his eyes shut as just a tiny attempt to extract his captive feet shoots fire along his ribcage. Ever the stubborn Stark he is, he persists. "Guess I could… make a little trip to the shop." He pants as he manages to remove one foot, then two.

"Relax, sir." JARVIS says, and Tony furrows a sweaty brow questioningly at the ceiling, but he has very little time to be confused, because moments later, his elevator is dinging open and a large robotic arm holding a tray rolls toward him. Tony releases a disbelieving little chuckle and instantly regrets doing so, but DUM-E's happy whir is enough to bring him around fairly quickly.

DUM-E stops with his claw mere inches from the bed, just close enough for Tony to reach the items on the tray, and Tony smiles appreciatively at him. What a wonderful little family he has. "You guys take good care of me." He says, reaching up with a harsh grimace to pat DUM-E's claw before weak, quivering fingers curl around the syringe containing the intravenously administered ibuprofen. He's happy to note the existence of a glass of cold water there as well, only the best thing he's seen almost _ever_.

He's probably more dehydrated than he's ever been, possibly even more so than the moments directly following his rescue from the desert of Afghanistan. As he ties the a rubber strip around his bicep, having some difficulty using a combination of his right hand and his teeth to do so, he notices just how much sweat he's produced, and promptly finds himself disgusted. Black hair matted and sticking to his scalp like it's glued there, clothes feel tight as spandex, and his damn bed is like a swamp.

Gross. Tony pops the cap of the syringe and inserts the needle into a vein located in his inner elbow with a wince. Doing so while lying down and attempting to not jostle the torture device in his sternum is quite the task but he emerges successful, cool liquid overtaking his veins like ice water. Slowly his headache fades, and he closes his eyes, enjoying the sudden absence of knives behind them.

The sun burnt feeling all over his body is diminishing until he's shivering in a healthy way, with actual cold and not sickness. He wishes he knew where that damn comforter went to, but finds himself too exhausted and in too much pain to even consider sitting up let alone _getting_ up to look for it, so he decides to be comfortable, or relatively so, right where he's at, on his back, soaked in sweat, not moving an inch.

Until he feels soft fabric sliding up his body, and when he looks, he sees DUM-E pulling the previously lost comforter carefully over him with small purrs of affection.


	6. Chapter 6

It's 15:23 exactly and Steve is slicing angry gray lines mindlessly into a piece of sketch paper, when the call comes. On the other end of the phone issued to him by SHIELD, Fury is in a state of subdued panic. Apparently, there's an unidentified gaseous vapor crawling its way through HQ 35 in southern Arizona, and Tony and Bruce's particular skill sets are currently in demand. There is thought to be six people still trapped inside, their statuses unknown.

But there's one glaring problem with such a specific request; Tony has yet to emerge from his workshop, where JARVIS insists he's still busy doing stuff and things. Excuses have become even more obscure and Steve's just about had it up to the moon with whatever Tony's trying to accomplish by staying hidden. Missing a call to assemble will be the absolute last straw.

"JARVIS, get Banner on the phone." He says as he pulls his blue kevlar top on hurriedly, and instantly regrets sounding so demanding. "Please."

JARVIS doesn't reply but seconds later, as Steve rushes around to piece together the remainder of his uniform, Bruce's voice cuts through his focused determination. "Yeah, I got it." He says, sounding breathless, possibly in the process of getting ready himself. "You, Tony and myself, correct?"

"Yeah, and Barton and Romanoff as escort." Steve nearly growls, slipping a foot into a heavy combat boot. "That's gonna be an issue, though. You haven't seen Stark, have you?"

"No." Bruce admits, and he sounds just about as exasperated as Steve feels. "Meet you down by the shop?"

"Exactly what I was thinking." Steve says, pulling his other boot on and sprinting to the door, grabbing his shield on the way out. The line is cut, both parties aware that all that needed to be said was indeed, said.

The stairs are faster than waiting for the elevator to make the climb all the way up to Steve's floor, and he jumps entire sets of them, landing with tiny grunts on the platforms below, until he reaches the level containing Tony's workshop. He emerges to find Bruce already standing outside the blackened glass, punching codes into the access panel furiously, cursing quietly as each code is rejected. Steve skips all notion of formalities and comes up behind him, one clenched fist landing hard three times on the door. The glass is nearly impenetrable by design, but the pure righteous anger his raps contain still manage to leave it quivering in its frame.

"Captain Rogers, you are compromising the integrity of a secure perimeter." JARVIS says, and the smooth voice sounds suddenly more robotic than Steve's ever heard it. "Continuing to do so will give me authorization to deploy defensive capabilities."

Steve ignores the warning, blinded and deafened by passionate outrage. "Stark, I know you're in there!" He shouts futilely, because he knows the shop is sound-proof, and doing so is simply to appease his own appetite for a display of his indignation. An outlet. He bangs on the glass three more times, face twisting with his snarl. "There's no time for this stupid game, people are getting hurt!"

"This is your final warning, Captain." Now, JARVIS sounds vengeful as two slender, black cylinders slide out of the ceiling on either side of the frame, the unmistakable muzzles of very advanced weaponry pointing directly at him. "Cease all aggressive actions now or face non-lethal incapacitation."

"Steve, c'mon." Bruce says quietly behind him, and he feels a hand land softly on his shoulder, a staying act of reason. For a man with rage issues, Bruce certainly knows how to diffuse potentially explosive situations. "Maybe he's on his way already."

Gripping the strap of his Shield in a tight fist, Steve shakes his head and looks to the camera above the door. "JARVIS," he says, voice too level to seem natural as he strains to keep himself from screaming at the A.I. "if Stark is still in the building, let him know that absence from this assembly will result in suspension."

Having found a slight bit of satisfaction with his words, Steve turns and continues on to the elevator, vaguely aware of Bruce trailing closely behind. The ascent to the helicopter pad on the roof is quiet, Steve radiating agitation and Bruce seemingly trying to rein in his own, the only sign of his struggle being fist clenching and unclenching beside him in a steady rhythm. It must be hard, Steve thinks as he glances over at him, needing to keep such a firm lid on the boiling concoction beneath that placid outer shell. He doesn't envy Bruce, but he holds high regard to the man's nearly unshakable resolve.

They exit the elevator to find Natasha and Clint waiting impatiently inside the cockpit of a quinjet, and run over to clamber aboard and sit on the bench within.

"Where's Stark?" Natasha asks as she flips various switches and glances over her shoulder at Steve in question.

Steve clenches his jaw. "No-show." He replies hotly, and Natasha shoots him an unabashed look of shock, before regaining composure with lightning speed and turning to initiate take off without further inquiry.

After all, they have a mission to conduct.

_**A/N: **__Please excuse my recent, frustrating lack of updates. I know people are dying to see what's happening in Dark Horse, as well as this one, but I'm having a bit of trouble balancing life right now and it's showing in pretty much every word document I open up and start typing on. _

_But please, never fear! I'm going to be doing a lot of writing, like neglecting my house and health type of obsessive writing, because here in about a month I'll be going to training in Korea. It'll be a 30 day course, and we're gonna be locked down on post with no wifi so hopefully I won't go crazy and kill my peers from lack of RDJ stimulus. But this could be good, hopefully I'll get some down time and come back with a whole lot of updates to apologize for my absence._

_Anyway, thank you all so much for your continued support and encouragement! For sake of being weird, you guys are like a drug… ok, that __**was**__ weird, forget I said anything. Just continue being bosses. _

_Oh, another update is on it's way. ;) _


	7. Chapter 7

Intense pain is resurfacing from its drug-dampened state and Tony's cursing the fact that ibuprofin can only be taken every eight hours, a rule he plans to adhere to religiously. He's positive his liver is already a mess, wrecked from decades of heavy alcohol consumption, and further abuse could prove devastating to his ultimate goal of staying alive. If he is going to systematically beat the crap out of his organs with foreign substances, he's going to make sure there's at least a party happening to justify it.

Tony despises these days. Lying on his right side now, he's glowering out the window in a state of determined disconnection, because remaining on _this_ plane of miserable existence for much longer will break him in half, and the crack will start right beneath the torturous arc reactor. He has notions of contacting Bruce for some actual goddamn pain meds, but quickly dismisses the thought, because he's set on learning to deal with this. It happens often enough that allowing himself to be coddled would be immensely counter-productive, and expecting narcotics every time will turn him soft.

At least his fever has diminished to a manageable level, and he's much more comfortable with the blanket pulled up around him, no longer sweating so heavily underneath it. And thank... _whatever_, the hallucinations have ceased for the time being. But good lord, he longed for a shower. And clean sheets. And a normal freaking heart not burdened with the endeavor of operating around a cluster of vicious, sharpened metal.

If Tony was one of those people who allowed themselves to tread in the thick, black waters of perpetual self-pity, he would have drowned in it long ago.

"Talk to me, J." He says quietly as his stubborn detachment begins to de-solidify with the corrosive influence of returning agony. He's in need of an outside distraction now, because the internal one he's concocted is eroding quickly. "Anything crazy happening that I should know about?"

There's a long pause, and Tony looks up after a minute, suspicious as he waits for an answer. JARVIS is a machine. He doesn't pause, he _calculates_, and before he calculates he lets Tony know he will _be_ calculating, so such a prolonged silence is concerning to say the least. It does provide an adequate distraction, though, as all consideration for his pain is replaced with curiosity. "JARVIS?" He inquires sternly.

"My apologies, sir." JARVIS replies, and Tony releases a thankful breath. He's not sure what exactly he was thinking had happened, but it had been enough to get his pulse going. "I was deciding whether lying to you would prove beneficial to your recovery, however protocol overrode any alternate conclusion I could possibly provide."

JARVIS sounds regretful. Tony is beyond shocked and confused, eyebrows raised and mouth open as it tries to get out words it's obviously forgotten how to formulate. JARVIS never lies to him. Regardless of the mitigation protocols in place for such an instance, JARVIS wouldn't _ever_ lie to him. "Alright..." He says slowly, expression wary as he studies the camera above him, which for all intents and purposes contains JARVIS' 'eyes'. "Spill."

"There's been a call to assemble, sir."

Tony sits up immediately. Pain shoots through him as his arc reactor shifts viciously, and he cries out, eyes snapping tightly shut to prevent sudden, unbidden tears from spilling. "Why... in the actual _fuck_... would you wait to tell me that?!" He gasps as loudly as possible, one hand clutching the arc reactor in a fruitless attempt to keep it immobile as the other throws the comforter off.

"Sir, it seemed illogical at the time to worry you with such information when you are clearly in no condition to provide aid-"

"Who says I'm in no condition?" He shouts angrily, planting feet on the floor with a low groan. "Who the hell asked you, JARVIS?" Standing is a miserable chore, and his legs shake as he rises, weakened by fever and hours of sweating and writhing. His chest feels like he's being stabbed.

"I'll remind you, sir, the Mark Seven is still undergoing repairs, leaving only one viable suit in the vicinity." JARVIS insists, sounding desperate.

"The seven can still fly, right?" Tony spits as he takes one tentative step forward, followed by a second, and a third. Finding his balance quickly, he hurries to a drawer and pulls out fresh clothes. Dressing himself will surly be agonizing.

"Yes, however-"

"Then make it fly! Get it ready." He growls in frustration at the damn near crippling pain just pulling his jeans up brings him.

"Sir, this mission requires use of a controlled internal ecosystem, specifically the air filtration system. The Mark Seven sustained heavy damage to its filtration system during your last outing."

"Whatever, I'll take my brief on the way there. What's the other option?" He snaps this question absently as he pulls on a shirt and shoves bare feet into tennis shoes. Of course he knows where all his various suits are. And he knows exactly which other one is there at the tower. What a perfect opportunity for his migraine to come back and demand revenge for the drugs he'd suppressed it with.

"The Mark Five, sir." JARVIS supplies quietly, ominously.

He stops for a moment, closes his eyes and breathes a deep sigh as nerves bunch up in his gut like a ball of snakes. Of course it's the Five, why would it be anything _other_ than the Five? He's got two goddamn suits sporting the ability to _not_ have to plug directly into his arc reactor and both are despairingly damaged. Shit, one of them isn't even in the same state. All of a sudden, he remembers bitterly what he had initially planned to do that day.

But he's Tony Stark. He drives on, regardless of personal comfort. "Those upgrades look promising for sustained flight?" he asks, swallowing the wriggling mass of anxiety in his throat and opening his eyes before marching resolutely forward, back straight and chest out despite the unbearable pain the posture causes.

"Indeed, sir." JARVIS confirms. "The suits current level of sustainable flight power should prove sufficient for your travel to Tucson."

"Arizona, huh?" He locates the compact, sleek suitcase containing the Mark Five sitting on a shelf in the safe near his balcony, and runs a hand lightly over it. He's prepared to do whatever it takes to help his team. "Never cared much for the desert." He whispers.

Pulling the suit to the floor with a grunt, Tony activates it with a press of his foot, and gazes down at the deceptively inviting gauntlets with dread. He's sweating heavily again. Oh, this is gonna suck.

Snarling through the pain, Tony bends down, plunges his hands into the gauntlets, lifts the suit to his chest, and feels the upgraded unit fit snuggly into his newer chest piece-

And screams raggedly as the lucid world dissolves around him, shatters and settles near his feet like so many broken mirrors, and he sees nothing but bright, blue light.

_**A/N: **Thank you for all the reviews and your continued support and encouragement!_


	8. Chapter 8

Inside the facility, it's like a warzone.

As soon as Steve exits the decontamination chamber, the gas enshrouds him like coils of constantine wire, and his breath hitches when his first inhale is met with painful, burning resistance. His eyes stream, and he shuts them quickly as he suppresses a cough. For the first time in his life, he's grateful they included the gas chamber in basic training. This is far more intense than a little CS, of course, but he appreciates the additional experience all the same.

When Steve's able to force his eyes open with herculean effort, because he knows they will sting and weep, he's struck by what he finds through the blur of involuntary tears. The reception area immediately beyond the entry point is dark, lit only by the steady pulse of flashing, red emergency lights. Alarms blare in a deafening rhythm, low and ominous, and the burning vapor is a visible presence all around him, creating a thick, hazy aura.

God, why him?

Their initial plan of action was to send in the Hulk, but with the chemical make-up of the crawling vapor being largely unknown, this notion became an impossibility. Bruce was adamant that the Hulk's reaction to the extreme environment would be unpredictable. Hulk adapts physically to sustain himself when exposed to less than desirable dangers by utilizing untapped rage, therefore creating even more dangerous circumstances than what they already face. Protective equipment already proved a failure against this substance, and with Thor having left for Asgard literally minutes before the call, Stark's suit would have been invaluable in their rescue effort.

So Steve's reaction was expected and barely even registered on a thoughtful level. He ignored Fury's insistent protests and charged in with little reservations because the serum is the best thing they have, and he'd be damned if he lets innocent people die when he can do something to prevent it.

And now, looking around himself with swiftly growing anxiety, exposed flesh seemingly melting and lungs turning to ash in his chest, Steve wishes he had a damn Iron Man suit of his own.

The facility is deceptively large, with most of the architecture existing underground, and little is known about the locations of the six missing personnel trapped within. There's three hallways in front of him that disappear into suffocating, uninviting darkness, and he has not a clue which one to take, so he goes off a hunch, taking the one to his right and sprinting into what can only be hell on Earth.

Steve's quick, tactical mind memorizes his steps, and soon he reaches a flight of stairs, descending quickly into the gasping pit below. His heart is racing oddly just from that relatively tiny amount of physical activity, and Steve realizes then that he needs to evacuate the victims as soon as possible, because if Steve Rogers is being affected this badly by whatever this is, he'll be lucky to find living people in this nightmare.

And he can't stop thinking angrily about how much easier this could have been had Stark shown up with his scanners. He coughs raggedly and eventually finds that he's unable to stop.

Turning left into another hallway at the bottom of the stairwell, he's greeted with a series of doors which lead into what look like individual quarters. Gasping and coughing into his elbow, unable to draw in a full breath, Steve begins kicking in the doors, moving inside each room to make entirely sure that no one's there. And when he sweeps around the bed of the fifth one and spots a woman lying on her side, his shock causes him to hesitate in a momentary, wide-eyed, debilitating instance of wasted seconds.

No photographic documentation exists of the effects of the black plague, which nearly decimated the population of Europe, but if Steve should take a bet, he'd bet the physical aspects of it closely resembled this. Lesions cover most areas of exposed skin, surrounded by a deep, penetrating black, and the way her eyes are still open, staring lifelessly into nothing, leaves Steve's blood running icy through his veins. He'd have nightmares about this.

Shaking himself from his stupor, Steve bends down to feel for a pulse at her carotid, and after a moment, he finds it, weak but steady. God, it's a miracle.

He hefts the woman up onto his shoulder, careful to avoid brushing against the wounds, and stops for a moment of split second decision making. He has two options. He could either run and grab the other five victims, wasting more time and possibly killing them all, or he could evacuate this woman immediately and save at least one of them, maybe. Hopefully.

_Damn you, Tony._

Steve leaves the way he came, bounding through hallways, and cycling over his memorized steps as he runs. All the while, he coughs and hacks and gags. When he exits the building, the dry desert heat is, ironically enough, akin to running into a soothing, misty cloud because the alternative inside is just so awful. Nose running and face burning, he sprints to the crowd of evacuated employees and deposits the woman with a medical team. Clint and Natasha are there and they eye him worriedly. Fury yells something, but Steve's hearing has fallen offline. Not that he would listen anyway.

He turns and runs back in. Because who's going to stop him? Really?

Assuming that SHIELD detected the gas relatively quickly and cordoned off the affected area nearly as fast, containing it at its initial origin, Steve returns to the living area. He finds another person five doors down, a man who looks like he'd been coming out of the bathroom when it hit, and Steve grabs him, flings him over his shoulder, and repeats his actions from before.

After relocating the man outside, Steve stumbles and vomits next to the medical vehicle. Fury doesn't say a word. He runs back in without a second glance.

The third person is further beyond the individual rooms, collapsed inside a sort of large common area, with a TV and a couch and kitchenette, and Steve is so short of breath he can barely stand by the time he reaches it. With squinted, watering eyes, he shuffles along the wall, holding himself upright against it, and as he nears the unconscious man and steps away to grab him, his legs buckle and he falls to the ground. "Dammit…" He rasps, looking toward the man. Deadened eyes stare back at him. Steve turns his face away with a guilty wince.

There's gas seeping into his open, sweating pores, a million little needles stabbing his throbbing face. He's beyond coughing now, reduced to tiny, quick, gravelly breaths, and he feels his strength draining from him, swirling away like water from a bathtub. His body is burning with effort and pain. Muscles spasm with the beginnings of nerve damage, an electric shock through each ending.

And, growling furiously, Steve grits his teeth and high crawls through it all anyway, focusing all his efforts on the man's outstretched hand, a limb unconsciously reaching for anyone willing to brave this to save him.

But the man's got to be thirteen feet away from Steve, and the small space between them is like a howling chasm.

Steve releases a desperate cry of frustration. C'mon, left knee up, left elbow up, push with foot, pull with elbow; right knee up, right elbow up, push with foot, pull with elbow. Dammit, somehow this was so much easier back when he was an eighty pound asthmatic.

Arms quiver beneath his weight, legs shake as they weakly push him forward, and there's something cynical in his mind, telling him to just give up and lie down, to stop torturing himself for the sake of a lost cause… to just accept that he'll die here. That damn near a century of cheating death will finally catch up with him. Perhaps he's been given too many chances already. Shadows glaze over paling blue eyes.

His elbow slips, but he catches it quickly with a snarl. And then the nerves in his legs bunch up like crumpled pieces of paper and he's unable to go any further. He rests his forehead on the cool ground beneath him. Takes in as deep a breath as he can muster, and weathers the cough it forces from his heaving chest

Well… at least he'll die warm this time.

He sees blinding blue light to his left, and turns his head slowly towards it, eyes squinted against its intensity. It's warm and comforting. And if Steve could use his legs, he'd gladly get up and walk to it. Instead, he lies there and allows it to come to him, bathing him in its otherworldly serenity and the strangest thought suddenly strikes him, a thought he would never consider appropriate immediately before an angel takes you;

'_I wish I would have stopped being so angry, if just for a moment, to check and see if Tony was okay.'_

And isn't that just like Steve Rogers? Considering others as he himself kisses death.

If Steve was to ever escape this by some miracle, he'd definitely strangle their resident eccentric genius with his own shoelaces.

_**A/N: **__Oh god, please don't kill me! Next chapter will be up soon as humanly possible. _

_I struggled with this one for a while, and even had the rest of the story written out, but it just didn't feel right because I am my own fucking worst critic, I swear. Not to mention how overwhelmed I am with the response to this story! It's almost nerve wracking how many people expect so much out of this and suddenly I have this crazy self-created standard I must uphold. _

_Anyway, don't fall off the edge of that cliff hanger, please! I truly __**do**__ love you guys. Thank you for all the support!_


End file.
